100 Moments in Kells
by GorimJr
Summary: There were moments before and after the attack of the Northmen. There were beginnings and endings, introductions and farewells. These are the moments that decided the fate of Kells, of Brenden, and of the Book that can turn darkness into light.
1. Introduction

**This isn't the vanilla 100 Themes. I'm mixing various variations of them, depending on what particular theme I like best. This was almost "Chores", but I decided "Introduction" would be better. **

_Moment One: Introductions_

All in all, Cellach found Brother Aiden rather underwhelming, considering his reputation.

But then, the brother wasn't easily impressed. A young man in his early twenties, he'd come to the Abbey of Kells to devote his life to Christ, leaving his mother, father and sister behind. He'd heard about the apprentice of Collum-Cille, who was arguably one of the greatest illuminators of their time.

He didn't know what he'd expected, but the man standing next to the Abbot wasn't it.

Brother Aiden was short. He was far shorter than Cellach (granted, the vast majority of people where shorter than Cellach), shorter than the Abbot, and shorter than the Mother Superior of the nearby nunnery that had come to welcome him. His hair was long and mostly white, though at that time there were still some streaks of black. He was slightly built, not very strong, and he wasn't very striking as far as his features. If Cellach hadn't known the man was Brother Aiden, he wouldn't have noticed him at all.

All in all, it was a rather disappointing moment.

Aiden must have noticed, because later, he came into the Scriptorium. Silent, like a cat, he crept up behind the younger man as he sketched out trees and deer.

"Very clean strokes, little brother," he said cheerfully. Cellach jumped, the quill splattering ink across the page. Aiden cringed. "Hate it when that happens."

Cellach scowled, then shrugged. "Just a scribbling." He turned and surveyed the small man critically. "So." He stood, abruptly towering over the older brother. The corners of Aiden's lips twitched. "You're Brother Aiden, are you?"

"I am." He replied, grinning slightly. He held out his hand, his blue eyes sparkling. "Good to meet you, little brother."

"Cellach," the tall Irishman clarified, grasping Aiden's hand in his. "Brother Cellach."


	2. Love

**As any parent or older sibling knows, no matter how intelligent a child is, there are always times when they're young, or even when they're older, that make you seriously contemplate the possibility that they may have brain damage.**

**I'm absolutely certain, considering some of the things Brenden does, that that boy is no exception. I mean, he's smart and mature, sure. But so are my siblings, one of them aged the same as Brenden, and they both make me question their sanity and brain function on a daily basis. Yea verily, there are times when I stare in shock at them and think **_**Are you brain damaged?**_

**And so, in honor of children everywhere, I give you this Moment.**

_Moment Two: Love_

Cellach had wanted to protect many things in his life: the Abbey, his sister, his mother, and his home. He'd lost the last three in a blaze of flame and the hollow swish of axes and broadswords. Years later, he'd loose the Abbey in much the same way.

But when he'd made his weary way back to the Abbey of Kells after going to the charred remains of his village, he carried with him a baby.

His sister's son, the baby was a miracle. Everyone said so. He'd survived Northmen and flame, smoke and snow, days without food or water… Yes, God had looked down kindly on the boy named Brenden.

Cellach had loved many things in his life, and all those things had been, or would be, taken from him. Except, though he didn't know it, that baby.

And the baby… oh, the baby usurped all.

He was grafted into the Abbey, and grew quickly. He looked like his mother, and his grandmother, with their eyes and their hair, and their pleasant, kind features. He was quick and curious, too much for his own good really. Cellach felt like a housewife, worrying over that child every second of the day.

Sometimes he was very certain that Brenden had brain damage. That maybe he hadn't gotten out of that chaos quite as unharmed as he'd originally thought.

Why else would he run down the stone steps of the abbey a mere moment after Cellach had specifically ordered him _Don't run down the stairs, Brenden. _And, of course, he fell and cracked his head open. And the little idiot had cried, but later he_ laughed._ As if cracking one's head open on the steps of an abbey and getting blood all over everything was a fun and exciting experience.

"Did you see, Uncle? Did you see?" He asked excitedly as Brother Tang held back laughter and sewed the gash on his scalp shut. Cellach held his head in his hands and tried to make his heart settle into a regular rhythm. It had skipped several beats when the boy tumbled down, and the blood, oh the _blood…_

"Yes, Brenden…" He assured the boy tiredly. "I saw."

And why else would he consistently bother the goats when every brother in the abbey, even the abbot himself, had warned him not to? And, of course, one of the goats head butted him across the lawn, leaving him winded on the ground with three bruised ribs. Even _that_ was, later, cause for excited retellings and painful bouts of giggling.

"I guess it doesn't like me, Uncle." Brenden giggled, wincing as his ribs ached painfully.

"Maybe if you didn't throw sticks at it?" Cellach proposed, glancing up from his drawing. "Or if you didn't try to ride it?" Brenden grinned sheepishly, and his uncle rolled his eyes.

He was only five at the time, but _still…_ Cellach didn't remember being _that_ stupid as a child.

_Yes,_ Cellach thought sullenly, glancing at the child as he squirmed during Mass. _He has brain damage. It's the only explanation._

As he grew older, the Northmen that had taken the family he and his uncle shared grew closer. They made their way down the coast, sacking every village they passed, leaving only those lucky enough to run fast enough in their wake.

When Brenden turned seven, Cellach was named the new Abbot. The first thing he decided to do was begin the construction of The Wall.

The child watched as Cellach covered his walls with equations and blue prints. He helped his uncle draw out what the abbey would look like one day, maybe when he was twelve, or thirteen, or fourteen.

Cellach made the wall to protect the Abbey. But, in the back of his mind, the driving force was Brenden. Protecting him the way Cellach couldn't protect Brenden's mother, or Brenden's grandmother.

The walls grew higher, and Brenden grew older. He was accepted as a brother of the abbey, and helped the illuminators of the Scriptorium gather quills. He would scuttle up the scaffolds, which grew taller and taller as he did, and run errands for his uncle. Shockingly, the amount of times he fell from the scaffoldings numbered in only the single digits. Cellach, having watched him do a number of ridiculous things that a boy of his apparent intelligence should have known not to do, expected to be carrying the boy to the infirmary every few days.

As Brenden grew older, the fact that he had brain damage entered less and less into Cellach's mind. At least, it didn't enter the forefront as much. But it was still there, in the back of his head.

The walls grew higher and Brenden grew taller, until Cellach realized with a start that it had been twelve years since he'd found the boy under that bed. Twelve years of wincing whenever some loud noise echoed across the abbey. Twelve years of fretting and sitting over the boy's bedside when he was ill and pinching the bridge of his nose when Brenden did something that screamed _brain damage._

Sometimes Cellach felt like a hairsbreadth from strangling him, or shaking him by his shoulders. But that wasn't exactly fair.

_After all,_ Cellach thought dryly, but with affection, as he watched Brenden crash through layers of scaffolding chasing after a goose. _The boy has brain damage._


	3. Light

_Moment Three: Light_

It was a dream, but one of the greatest dreams he'd had in years. For the first time, Brendan wasn't dead or dying. His body wasn't being eaten by wolves, or beaten and bloody. He wasn't a slave in some land where no one knew how bright and inquisitive and talented he was. He was alive and grown, tall and strong and healthy, and clothed warmly in white. His blue eyes still sparkled with mischief and fun, but it was tempered with a sort of serenity. He smiled at Cellach, a smile devoid of accusation or cruelty. His hands closed around the old man's gently, suffusing the Abbot's icy fingers with warmth.

It was so real… But it was a dream. Even as Cellach stared at the man before him, he knew it couldn't be anything but a dream.

Still, the Abbot poured his heart out. He said everything he'd wanted to say to Brendan since the morning after the Viking attack. That Brendan had been right about everything, how Cellach had been wrong, how it was his fault, all his fault…

Not once did Brendan agree with him. Not once did that glorious dream descend into darkness. Instead, Brendan reminded the Abbot kindly that Aidan never really paid his skepticism much heed, and brought out the Book.

"The Book of Iona."

"The Book of Kells?"

It was a thing of beauty, a thing that could only exist in dreams. If he hadn't been sure it was a dream before, he knew now. There was no way anything so beautiful could exist. He'd broken down weeping at the sight, and waited to wake up, to have Tang shake him and ask why he was crying.

It never happened. Brendan gently took the book from him, closing it and whispering that Cellach needed to rest. Tang had gotten him settled, and as they both crept out, Cellach had glanced down and seen the white cat curled up at the foot of his bed.

He woke up to sunlight, the early morning beams making their way into the room. He sat up, vaguely surprised that Tang hadn't woken him. There was no cat at the foot of his bed. No indication that that beautiful memory was anything more than a dream that would, later that day, slip through his fingers like mist when he tried to remember.

Oh, he so desperately wanted to remember! The warmth of Brendan's hands, the timbre of his voice, the fact that he had been happy and there and so very _alive._

But dreams weren't like nightmares. Happiness didn't linger; it flitted away like a moth, and soon Cellach wouldn't even remember it.

It should have made it easier, knowing that. But it only made it worse.

And then, he heard a small sound. So incredibly faint that, considering his age, it was a miracle he heard it at all. He looked to the side of his bed in time to see a large, fluffy white cat jump up and sit next to him. Her fey eyes, one green and one blue, blinked up at his stunned expression with what seemed like calm amusement.

_What?_ She seemed to ask. _Never seen a cat before?_

Cellach reached out and touched her. She purred and rubbed into his skeletal hand, her skull small and positively delicate.

Where on earth had she come from? She looked like…

No. Impossible. It was a dream.

The door opened, and Cellach looked up, ready to question Brother Tang on this new arrival. His words caught painfully in his throat, however, when he saw that the man entering was not Brother Tang.

The man carrying the breakfast tray was tall and strong, with a red hair and beard, the same shade that Cellach's hair and beard had been so many years ago. His robes were white, but slightly discolored at the hem from travel, and his eyes were blue, with the same good humor and intelligence as…

As Eileen, his older sister, long dead. And the same as…

"Brendan?" Cellach croaked. The cat looked from the man petting her to her master.

"Good morning, Uncle." The man's smile was wide and cheerful. He didn't seem to notice his uncle's face as he turned his grin to the cat sitting in the old man's lap. "Good morning to you too, Pangur." The cat meowed a greeting.

"You should have been down earlier," Brendan continued, his eyes looking for a place to put the tray down. "The villagers were so shocked to see me. Some of them seemed to think I was some sort of ghost!" He laughed.

For Cellach, it was a shockingly wonderful sound. It was what broke his silence and made him sob.

Brendan turned sharply, staring at his uncle in shock. He put the tray down on the floor and rushed over to the bed, his hands covering his uncle's, his eyes wide and concerned.

"Uncle, are you alright?" He asked. Cellach shook his head.

"You're alive?" He gasped. "Good God, you're _alive!_ But you can't be alive…"

Concern mixed with confusion on Brendan's face.

"Yes," the young man said. "You saw me yesterday. You knew that."

"That was a dream!" The Abbot rasped. "A dream! No, you were dead, or dragged off. I didn't know which was worse!" His hand reached up and touched his nephew's cheek, gripped his shoulder, verified that he was real. "You were gone, one way or another. And it was my fault! I locked you in that building, and it burned, and got overrun by Vikings. And the last thing you'd remember of me was my rage, my disappointment. But you weren't a disappointment, Brendan!" It was imperative that he knew that, one way or another. Cellach gripped the man's arm, staring into his stunned eyes. "You weren't! Even as I tried to hold you back, even as I tried to protect you, I marveled. I was _proud_. You were a remarkable boy, Brendan. An incredibly smart, talented boy…"

He felt the hands that gripped his own so tightly drift away. He sobbed, not wanting to look up and see nothing staring him in the face, mocking him, laughing at his weakness and insanity.

Then, he was pulled into a tight embrace. He opened his eyes and saw Brendan holding him, his shoulders shaking.

Both men laughed and sobbed as it finally sunk it for both of them.

They had not failed.

And they were not alone.


	4. Dark

**This was originally something far... uh... darker. But I changed it. **

**I really need to stop writing only stories about Cellach and Brendan...**

**This is very, very short. But I DON'T CARE. I just wanted to get past this Moment.**

_Moment Four: Dark_

"_Check."_

_The child wasn't going to back down, that was certain. Nevertheless, Cellach scowled and crossed his arms, determined to stand his ground._

"_There are no spiders under the bed, Brendan."_

"_You don't know that!" The boy protested. "You didn't check! What if it happens again?"_

_This was honestly getting ridiculous. Cellach had woken up the night before last to the sound of his nephew screaming. He didn't know what he thought had happened, but the boy's terrified story of waking up to a spider on his face wasn't it. Admittedly the thought had been rather chilling at the time, and he'd let the boy sleep in his bed that night, but after a few days of introspection, Cellach decided that Brendan's irrational fear of spiders had gone on long enough._

"_Please, Uncle?" Brendan pleaded. The man shook his head firmly._

"_No. Absolutely not." _

_The look on Brendan's face made Cellach feel as if he'd kicked a puppy. His lower lip wobbled and his eyes went very wide, and were abruptly full of tears. _

_Against his will, Cellach began to second-guess himself. It was tiring, but the lad was only five, and Cellach grudgingly recalled having similar fears of things lurking underneath the bed._

_He hadn't forced his father to look underneath, however. And his fears were of monsters, not __**spiders**__._

_But the look in the boy's eyes was one of total heart-break and fear, and so Cellach, with a pointed look of exasperation, checked under the bed. _

"_Nothing," he said firmly, standing straight and raising an eyebrow. "As I said before."_

_Brendan smiled brightly, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Thank you, Uncle. Good night."_

The memory had come up unbidden, in the moments before sleep. Brendan had snuggled down into his bed for the first time in nearly twenty years, and his eyes flew open in an instant. He hadn't thought about spiders in years, not since more pressing fears had muscled their way into his thoughts and nightmares. Now, the creeping feeling of one of those eight-legged things hanging inches above his face, a moment from falling, made him practically roll out of his bed.

Standing, he hesitated, then swung his arm wildly at the air above his bed, checking for webs. Nothing. He sagged with relief, then tensed again. They could be in the corners, or perhaps higher than he was tall. They could be inches away from his bare feet…

Brendan hurried across the room to the table where his candle sat. His haste made him misjudge the distance between his bed and the table. The dull sound of his toes colliding with the leg was quickly followed by a great deal of snarled curses. He took a deep breath and, clenching his teeth to keep from cursing more, reached over and lit the candle.

Right next to his hand was an enormous spider.

He froze. The spider froze. Brendan, in a rather ungodly way, wondered if he would burn the tower down if he tried to kill it with fire.

_Just crush it_, a rather hysterical voice in his head said. _You're a fully-grown man! You're beyond this!_

Yes, he was. He was totally beyond this childish fear of spiders.

He kept telling himself that as he snuck into the Scriptorium, a pillow under his arm and a blanket over his shoulders.

_I'm beyond this… sort of._


End file.
